Subject: Mac

From: "howey emmalee" <[email-masked]>
Date: Mon, 26 Mar 2007 16:02:41 -0600

As it sits there like an eventual
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
Silence, are in his hand-birds in a snare;
In the woods, close by,
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Are muffled into silence that refuses
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
Scrawny wolves, and you,
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
Before those virile women!
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Bronze the sky, with no